| It’s okay, sport. Been pretty busy at work myself.” The younger Ryan chuckled. “So how’s life?” “It’s fine.” “Living in London is great, right?” Jack Junior could hear the excitement in his dad’s voice, almost as if he was enjoying himself vicariously through his son’s experience, reliving his own time here so long ago. Junior just muttered out an unenergetic “Yeah.” There was a pause. Jack Senior said, “It is great, right?” “I guess I’m still settling in a little.” “Is something wrong? Is there a problem?” “No, Dad. Everything is fine.” Jack Senior paused again. “You know you can talk about anything, right?” “Of course. And I will. It’s all good. Work is just frustrating.” “Okay.” The father left it alone, though he could hear tension in his son’s voice. He asked, “I was wondering if you had time to do me a favor.” Now Jack Junior lightened up. “Name it. It would be good to think about something else for a bit.” “You remember Basil Charleston, don’t you?” “Of course. It’s been a long time. He must be well into his eighties by now.” “And that’s the problem. I have a couple of questions for him, and I would love to talk to him in person, but I have a funny feeling he’s not going to be able to hear me over the phone. The last time I called him it was hit-and-miss.” “Does he still have his place in Belgravia?” “He does.” “I can swing by, it’s |
Present day The black Bronco shot through the storm, its tires kicking up mud and water and grit as it raced along the gravel road, and rain pelted the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. As the truck charged along at sixty miles an hour, the back doors opened and two armed men climbed out and into the rain, one on each side. The men stood on the running boards and held on to the door frame with gloved hands. Their eyes were protected from the mud and flying rocks and water by large goggles, but their black Nomex suits and the submachine guns around their necks were wet and mud-splattered in moments along with the rest of their gear: helmets with integrated headsets, ballistic protection on their chests and backs, knee and elbow pads, and magazine pouches. Everything was soaked and caked with mud by the time the Bronco closed on a cabin in the center of a rain-swept pasture. The vehicle decelerated quickly, skidding to a stop just twenty feet from the front door. The two men on the running boards leapt off and raced toward the building, their weapons scanning the trees all around, searching for any targets. The driver of the Bronco joined soon after; just like the others, he carried an H&K submachine gun with a fat silencer on the end of the barrel. The three operators formed in a tight stack near the entrance, and the man in front reached forward |
